The Lady of the Istari
by Lady Raife
Summary: At the beginning of time, a psychic woman from Arnor comes to the House of the Istari on Rhun, she and Gandalf fall in love. She is set in an eternal sleep, and years later, she is risen by Saruman to be a bounty-hunter and kill Gandalf and the Fellowship
1. The Stranger

       I had originally come from Arnor, my father's family rangers of the north, but it was my mother's side where I was most proud of my lineage. My mother was a beautiful woman, but they say she danced with the devil. They say she had powers, powers like the master himself. I don't think she ever touched me in her entire life. She would rock me in mid-air, and when I misbehaved, an invisible hand would slap me. My father drank, he didn't love my mother, but, oh, he loved me. My father was Rodeas the Hunter. I am well respected where I come from. Not many people have never heard of Rodeas. But he's dead. Long dead. My mother killed him. She tried to kill me too. But I was too strong. 

        _Knock! Knock!_ Somebody pounded upon the old wooden door. A man peered through a peephole to the other side. A woman stood there, shivering, the icy rain chilling her tiny body. Her eyes were closed, and she turned her head wildly, as though looking for something. Her mouth was a thin, unhappy line drawn on her pale face. She looked sickly and wan, and the man, warm and contented inside the large house could do nothing but let this poor creature in. 

        The door opened effortlessly, the young man touching the knob with only his mind. "Come in, come in…" he took the poor lady's soft hand in his own. She limped, and her wounds were revealed, a large gash upon her forehead, and stabs and cuts everywhere else upon her petite body. 

        "I-I am to weak to heal my wounds, good sir…I have heard that many men live here…men with powers…Let them heal me as I could not myself…" she whispered, falling down upon the marble tile that lined the expensive stone floor.

        "Gandalf! Gandalf! Come!" A doorway leading into another hallway opened, and a handsome young man with a very thoughtful expression walked to the young man.

His expression lightened, "Ah, friend Saruman! Listen to this beautiful prose! How sweet and dear the summer's fields-"

        "Friend Gandalf! The girl! The girl!" Gandalf broke his gaze from the book to look at the woman. 

        "Hmm…so I see. She lays on the ground…wet, unhappy…" He looks up and laughs, "What did you do to the poor thing, you bastard?"

        Saruman barely smiled. "She is hurt…help me heal her." Gandalf nodded, and the two took their staffs, and crossed them over one another, reciting a spell and a prayer. Her eyes closed slowly, her black curling lashes snapping her black eyes shut. 

        Gandalf was once more enthralled in a book, as he often was, at the bedside of the lovely young woman. She awoke many days after the incident, when the rain season was just drawing to a close. She was dressed in a ragged black dress and tightly-tied black ankle boots. 

        Gandalf looked up at her. Her eyes were open. Cocking one brow, he smiled, "Hello." He spoke softly, not wanting scare the woman had she spoken a different language. 

        She looked up, "Davvrả?" 

        Gandalf raised another brow, _Was this a true language?_

        "Iin liamoe naevre tyvenre?" Gandalf struggled to understand. _Hadn't she spoken Westron at our first meeting? _He wondered.

        "Do you speak Westron?" he spoke slowly. The young woman stopped her endless speech in this strange language. 

        "I do, sir," she whispered. It was not her first language. She spoke this language strangely, but her speech was smooth and her words lolled on her tongue. 

        He was not sure how to greet her, "I am Gandalf."

        She smiled, "Gandalf." She repeated with ease. "That is a wonderful name."

        He laughed self-consciously, "Why thank you, miss." Gandalf bowed, setting his book down on her bedside table. "Are you hungry?" he asked, offering a bite of an apple. 

        She stared at the apple, "No…I am not hungry. I do not eat that much."

        Gandalf stared at the young woman's willowy stature, "I would say you don't eat enough." He smiled at her gently, handing her the apple.

        She looked pathetic, sad, as if she did not take the apple, Gandalf would hurt her. She -carefully, not to touch him, and looking away, as careful not to stare directly into his eyes- took the apple. She twirled the shiny red fruit in between her lithesome fingers, staring at the sparkle the beams of light from the window cast upon it. Opening her mouth, she clamped her white teeth down upon the apple, it crunched and the juices of the fruit were released into her mouth, she jumped at the sweet flavor of the glossy apple. Gandalf silently acknowledged the actions of the girl, puzzled by her behavior. Her teeth severed the bite of apple, and she silently chewed it, her eyes intent upon not looking at Gandalf. 

        After she had meagerly taken nibbles from the apple, the fruit clutched between her hands, held up to her mouth. Gandalf spoke, "Why do you not look at me, child?" He stroked his pure white goatee, like the arrogant youth he was, running his fingers through, combing his beard for offending bits of food or otherwise that could have let this pale creature think him repulsive or unsanitary. 

        "It is impolite to stare at a man, for it induces the response that the woman has stronger feelings or tensions for this man than she truly does." She paused, unsure, "One more bruise could kill me. Not just the physical pain, but the mental pain…and dreaming of once lashing out at the criminal hand that would repeatedly beat such a woman." She cowered, waiting for his response.

        "I would never hurt you, child. You are a poor woman; your arms so bruised, your scalp dry and your hair turning white from pure stress of the life you have led." He tried to lower his eyes to her gaze, but she broke her stare, trying to shield her eyes from his penetrating gape. "You are a lovely woman, do not hide that."

        "What madness has turned _your _hair white, Sir Gandalf?" she said softly, lifting her gaze, if only so slightly.

        "Only genetics…" he rubs his beard, as if contemplating the young woman cross-legged upon the bed before him. She said nothing. "Are you all right?" he tried not to blatantly notice the pus-filled bruises that covered her helpless body. Her skin black from soot and ash, lash marks hidden by her dress. 

        "I am." She pulled the sheets up further, hiding her wounds. Gandalf's grey eyes studied the woman, peering straight into her soul. A low, sultry gong resounded throughout the walls of the home. 

        "Dinner," Gandalf looked to the door, two other men waited for him. They motioned for him to leave the side of the girl and eat with them. Gandalf could not refuse a meal when he had not eaten all day. He stood, extending a hand, "Would you join me for dinner?" he smiled down into the face of the frightened girl.

        "I would never ruin your meal, sir." She shook her head, declining his invitation. 

        Gandalf seemed taken aback, "It would be an honor to serve a guest." The woman stared pathetically at him with such large, sad eyes. Gandalf set his hand at his side, staring between the girl and his two friends, impatient and hungry. He gave a grim smile, and rushed to join his friends.

        As the door shut, the woman looked to the bedside table. Gandalf's beloved book lay there. She lay a finger the flatten the cover, _A Blink in the Eye of Time. _She gently picked up the book, opened to the first page, and began to read…

        _The eye of time is a phrase most commonly used in ballads as a measurement of time. Such as seen most famously in the ballad of King Fahad of 82 – 1…_

The book droned on, and the gentle woman read on into the late hours of the night, entranced by this book, so subtle and boring, that she could not bear to put it down.


	2. Scent of Lavender

        The rain beat madness against the glass panes of the tiny window, the girl barely noticed the beat pounded out against the door, until a soft voice broke the silence. 

        "Excuse, my lady, this intrusion…" A gentle hand peeled the door back. His kind grey eyes were soft, and memories of women sifted like sand through the mind of Saruman. "My friend Gandalf left his book here." He motioned to the book, recognizing it instantly.

        "Oh," she whispered, "I am sorry, give your Gandalf my apologies." She regretfully released her finger from the page which held the spot she has intended upon continuing to read. Saruman nodded, curling his goatee with one finger, and bad and often unnoticed habit on Saruman's part. "You shouldn't curl your beard, for afterwards, it shall fail to grow longer."

        Saruman, the wise and all-seeing struck down the opinions of his current companion, "That is a silly wives tale."

        The girl's unwavering patience stood as firm and as tall as the stone of time, her deep eyes brewing hidden storms. Saruman's smug face did not irk the poor girl, it was his sympathetic smile, the thought that his empathy for her foolishness would cure her wounded pride, that made her ill.

        "Perhaps it is," she whispered, the energy in her voice drained, "that you are right, my lord. For what would one as I know compared to a sorcerer so great." She did not care anymore, let the man think what he will. 

        Saruman crouched to her bedside, and laid his dear hand upon her sickly colored cheek, "Dear, we must all learn." He stood, taking the book carefully from her hands. He walked to the doorframe, resting his hands upon the brass knob, ready to pull the door shut. His boot walked, stepping away, and the woman spoke.

        "But to what degree, my friend?" she said, her voice frail as though she were old, as time.

        Saruman's mind raced to answer her foolish question, there was no answer, no answer as truth as it was fallacy. He closed the door, a question hanging overhead, like a thundercloud, threatening, rumbling. Walking away, he realized soon he had gotten the best of the woman, leaving mysteriously, just as she had left him with a question, he, even better had left her with an unspoken question, an undetectable aura, an anonymity he decided he liked. 

        This woman made him think, think that…perhaps she was not so common a whore. 

        Gandalf leafed though the pages of the book, his eyes closed, he wafted the scent of lavender from the pages. Saruman raised his brows, "Friend Gandalf, you surely have gone mad, for my old Gandalf would not have spent his time smelling a book!" a smile toying with his lips. 

        "It smells like her room…" Gandalf smiled softly. "I wondered what a wonderful scent occupied the room that day. Lavender, the flower of the goddess…" he flipped through the pages again, breathing deep the heavy scent of the purple blossom.

        "I think you like her, Gandalf!" Saruman heartily laughed, disguising his competitive jealousy.

        "No, no, I think not!" Gandalf closed the book with a resolute snap. "I don't even know her name!" he challenged Saruman. 

        Saruman laughed, curling his goatee, "Why not call her Lavender, Gandalf, you seem to be keen upon that scent of flower…?" 

        The two merrily laughed, as friends should, but in the early hours of morn, it became nervous laughter, both men having figured the other liked the puzzling woman, for just that reason, the fact she was puzzling. 

        And both men decided to themselves…they wanted to know what she was hiding. To unlock the sweet mysteries this shadowy figure would have in store for them, and they became blind in all other aspects, their shifty eyes watching each other, watchful ears listening for the creak of a footfall upon the wooden boards. 

        The woman fell asleep listening to the peals of laughter emitted by the two young sorcerers. Her head spun with what they could be talking about, but she never would have guessed…


	3. Late to Dinner

** Author's Note: Oh man, I'm terrible! I've been doing nothing for a few months and forgetting my fanfic! I hope you all can forgive me, and enjoy the new chapter… I love to hear from people who read, so _please_, email me at pennyc@ameritech.net …If I know people want me to write more…I will! **

       The final sting of the rain season sent spring showers upon the palace of the Istari. Fifty young men practiced their exercises in the yard. Eight young men watched. Gandalf and Saruman were among those two. A very handsome man with light blond hair and electric blue eyes, robed entirely in silver raised his hands and shouted words that rang clearly through the dark clouds and the rolling crashes of thunder. Thirty of the young men stopped their work, looked to the man who called, and trudged inside. The man, a wizard, turned to the other seven men, robed also in silver, spoke a few words, and left. 

       Hours passed and wizards had taken groups of men inside, until there was one man left, and one wizard. The wizard did not whip the man like some others, and he did not jeer or urge the young man on. He stood there, through the cold and the storm. Then, the man who worked slipped, and fell into the mud. Miserable, he tried to pull himself out of the sloppy mess. The solitary wizard walked over and put out a pink hand, helping the man up. The pale, callous, bruised hand of the worker met the face of the soft, pink, fleshy skin of the wizard. With a grateful smile, the worker got up. The wizard nodded towards the door, and the worker hurriedly rushed away, towards the scent of fresh baked loaves of bread. The wizard pulled back his silver robes, stuck one knee in the mud. Picked up the plow the worker had dropped, and began to work.

Saruman sat comfortably at the high table, his arm around the silent girl, the visitor. She would not speak to him; he could only assume that she was shy. She only lifted her wine glass for a sip of the cocktail. 

       Tired and muddy, Gandalf trudged in for dinner late. His robes were stained and holey, his silver-white hair streaked with dirt and grass. His grey eyes flashed, worn out by the laborious work. The expression on the girl's face became sympathetic, but she did not move. 

       Saruman stood up, "Where have you been, Gandalf? The food has been presented to us, and you shun it away? Are you not thankful for what your brothers have given you?" 

       "I am thankful, Saruman, but perhaps we should be thanking them by growing the food ourselves, instead of just eating it," Gandalf called back. He left the hall, everyone's eyes following him. 

       As soon as everyone started to eat again, the girl stood, and hurried out after Gandalf…

** Isn't Gandalf so nice and wonderful? And for everyone who knows this isn't what the Istari did at the beginning of time, don't flame me! It's just a fun story, and I hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I love writing it! **


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